


In the Eye of the Beholder

by serenlyall



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, and it's a birthday present no less, anyway, but they're there?, celeborn and galadriel and celebrimbor are barely in there, idk so i tagged them even though i probably shouldn't have, it's been sitting in my wips folder for like two months now whoooooops, my bad - Freeform, yeehaw finally got this written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-31 21:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20801453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenlyall/pseuds/serenlyall
Summary: In which a filly is brought to the shores of Middle-earth, as a gift for Elrond from his parents. Or: Avasath's arrival in Middle-earth.





	In the Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> For Elfwarrior96 over on ff.net, who also had a birthday not too long ago. Happy birthday, dear friend! I hope you enjoy!

The waves slap against the side of the ship’s hull in the echo of a sweet lullaby, while overhead the stars sing in glorious array. A light sea breeze plays across the deck of the ship, catching the sail and filling it, pulling at the hair of the Elf standing in the prow of the ship.

Orthatinnu, courier between Aman and Middle-earth, stands gazing toward the far horizon for which they sail, the mighty land and the city that is their destination invisible due to the distance they yet have to traverse. The night rolls across the ocean thick but gentle, Varda’s raiment and ithil’s glow lighting their way and gilding the crests of the waves in silver.

A snort causes Orthatinnu to turn his head toward the pen erected just beneath the ledge at the prow. A dark horse—darker than the night, darker than the shadows coalesced between the lamps, darker than the heavens between the stars—stands and stares at him with watchful, wary eyes. She snorts again, and stamps a hoof, and seems to judge him and his thoughtful wishing for the end of their journey.

Orthatinnu smiles. “You are quite the horse,” he murmurs, turning and descending the small ladder to the deck proper. He stops beside the pen, built from slatted wooden planks taller than his chest—any shorter, they had found, and she could leap over them—and gazes in at her.

She stares back at him, ears pricked forward attentively. Orthatinnu smiles. “You do not look so fearsome in the dark where you belong,” he says to her. “But, then, what demon _doesn’t_ look fiercer in the day, when all their wrongness is plain to see by sunlight.”

The horse snorts again, and flicks her tail—then lunges forward to snap her teeth at Orthatinnu’s face. He jerks back, out of reach, and chuckles. He had learned the very first day that she was prone to biting any flesh that came within reach.

He smiles again, ruefully this time, and turns away to go beneath deck to his hammock and to Reverie, leaving the demon trapped in horseflesh behind him to stare up at the stars by herself.

~*x*~

They reach the docks of Mithlond after two weeks of sailing. Orthatinnu descends the gangplank alone, while the rest of the crew sets about unloading the crates and packages from the storage rooms below deck. A tall Elf, brown-haired and silver-eyed, is waiting for him on the docks, a slight smile creasing his lips.

“Welcome, Orthatinnu,” he says cheerily, as Orthatinnu’s feet hit solid land. “We have long been awaiting your arrival.”

Orthatinnu smiles. “Greetings, Maelu,” he says, and extends a hand, which Maelu grasps. “It has been too many moons, my friend.”

“Too many moons,” Maelu agrees. “But come, come. Aran Gil-galad awaits your reports.”

They turn, and Maelu leads the way to two horses tied to a hitching post in the shadow of the nearest warehouse. They mount, then turn their horses’ heads down the main thoroughfare leading down the length of the docks, then ride up into the city of Mithlond proper.

The city is a stunning array of marble and gleaming white stone, with pillars and trellises supporting flowering vines, carved arches leading into each progressive level of the city, and glittering windows that stare down with stained colors. The streets are cobblestone, the walkways to either side flagstone, the gutters free of refuse and weeds. Trees line many of the side thoroughfares, visible from the main street that leads from the docks to the palace, and countless flowers perfume the air with a sweet scent.

The palace itself stands high on the cliffs overlooking the sea on the far side of the city. A gleaming white and silver wall stands fifty feet into the air, even on the seaward side. A single, solitary gate, carved and embossed in gold and silver with an image of the Two Trees of Valinor, stands in the eastern wall, admitting all those who seek refuge or work in the palace. Four guards stand in the city courtyard in front of the gate, two just inside, beyond the portcullis, their silver armor dulled by the shadows of the thick tunnel in which they stand.

“Greetings, courier,” hails the nearest of the guards at the sight of Orthatinnu and Maelu. Orthatinnu bows in his saddle, and the guard salutes, waving them on through the gate.

They ride through the large courtyard inside the palace walls. The flagstones are larger than the horses they ride, and are whorled with rose and silver; the edges of the courtyard are lined with hedges, which in turn bleed into the palace gardens. A broad road leads from the entrance courtyard toward the palace itself, which rises glittering and massive ahead of them.

They follow the road around the edge of the palace when it branches off to two sides; ahead is a second courtyard, and the main entrance into the palace, with its grand double doors and massive entrance hall. Instead, Orthatinnu and Maelu turn right, and follow the smaller road toward the back of the palace, where the stables, mews, kennels, and falconry are all located around a central, smaller courtyard of grey flagstones. A run stands behind the kennels, and small, fenced pastures behind the stables. Horses graze contentedly there—Orthatinnu knows they have more extensive grazing space beyond the walls as well—while three hounds roughhouse in the dust, barking and yipping in play.

They dismount and leave their horses with stablehands, then Maelu leads the way into the palace through a smaller but still ornate door. A sweeping staircase stands before them as soon as they enter into the entrance hall, with corridors branching off to the left and right like the rays of a sun. A small drawing room stands just off of the door, where newcomers might be entertained until they are welcomed properly.

Maelu leads Orthatinnu past the drawing room, however, and up the staircase, which is whorled marble, then down the long corridor at the top. Tapestries line the walls, carpet lines the floor, and Orthatinnu is, as he always is, amazed by the luxury of the Palace of Mithlond.

The walk from the doors to Aran Gil-galad’s study takes nearly ten minutes; the palace is huge, and there is no direct route from one place to another. Rather, Maelu leads Orthatinnu up staircases and down curved stairwells, up corridors and down hallways, through door after door, hall after hall, passage after passage, until Orthatinnu is as lost as he always is. He has never spent enough time in the palace to learn his way around, though he admires those who have.

At last, however, they reach Aran Gil-galad’s study, notable by the armored guard standing outside the door. The guard bows at the sight of Maelu and Orthatinnu, then turns and raps on the oak door.

“My lord,” the guard calls, “your steward Maelu and the courier from Aman have arrived.”

“Enter,” calls Aran Gil-galad from within, and the guard pushes the door open, ushering Maelu and Orthatinnu in with a sweep of his hand.

Aran Gil-galad’s study is large and spacious, lined with bookshelves along two walls and windows along the third. A large fireplace stands in the near wall, while Aran Gil-galad’s desk stands to the left, a high-backed armchair behind it. A sofa and two more armchair sit before the hearth, in front of a low table scattered with books and papers.

Aran Gil-galad smiles and rises as Orthatinnu enters, coming around the edge of the desk to grip his arm warmly in greeting. “Welcome again to Mithlond,” he says. “Now tell me,” he adds, turning and leading the way over to the sofa and armchairs, “what news have you brought for us from Aman?”

“Lord Eärendil and Lady Elwing send their greetings,” says Orthatinnu, “along with a gift for their son.”

Aran Gil-galad’s eyebrows rise. Never before had the Lord Eärendil or the Lady Elwing sent anything, missive or item, to the hither shores.

“I also bear letters for you from Aran Arafinwё, Lord Fingolfin, and your father, Lord Fingon.” He reaches into his jacket and produces three letters, each wrapped in waterproof paper and bound with twine sealed in red wax.

Aran Gil-galad accepts them, then asks, “And what is this gift you have brought for Elrond?”

“A demon horse,” says Orthatinnu with a small grimace.

Aran Gil-galad’s eyebrows draw together. “I see,” he says slowly. “And did they say why?”

“No,” says Orthatinnu. “All that they told me was that he is in need of a new mount, and that they wished to provide him with one befitting of his status and abilities. She is bred of the finest jumper and the finest racer in Aman, and is of the finest bloodline Aman can offer. I can only hope that Lord Eärendil and Lady Elwing did not know how much of a nightmare the filly they selected was when they chose her—elsewise it is truly a cruel joke they are playing on their son.”

Aran Gil-galad’s face darkens further still. “It had best not be a joke,” he says grimly. “All the same, if it is a gift from them, even if she is a nightmare demon, I would not keep her from him.” He smiles sadly. “And who knows? Perhaps she will ultimately be good for him, demon and all.”

“Perhaps,” says Orthatinnu, unconvinced. He is not convinced anyone could benefit from a horse like the filly who had nearly bitten his nose off the first day—but, then, it was not his place to say. “Where is Lord Elrond?” he asks instead of saying anything else.

“In Ost-in-Edhil, recovering from wounds,” says Aran Gil-galad, and Orthatinnu notes that he will not meet his eyes. Orthatinnu frowns, wondering what that means—but does not press.

“I see,” is all he says. Then, “When should I leave?”

~*x*~

“So you are the demon horse.”

Ereinion Gil-galad stands just outside of the stall in which the Aman-bred filly stands, gazing through the window in the door at the magnificent horse. She is a sight to behold: purely black, like the night, with not even a single strand of white in her mane or tail. Her eyes are a rich, deep brown, her ears velvet points. Her tail flicks restlessly, and she stamps one hoof against the straw floor.

Gil-galad smiles. “I can see you have a great deal of spirit,” he says. “I think you will be good for Elrond.”

Without breaking eye contact, the filly kicks the back of the stall wall. The sound is concussive and sharp and echoes through the stable corridor. Two stalls down, another horse snorts.

Gil-galad’s smile widens. “You will help him forget his pain, I think,” Gil-galad says shrewdly. “Or, perhaps, give him new pains to think on.”

The filly snorts again, as if to say, _You can think what you like—I will do as I please._

“Indeed,” says Gil-galad. “I can see that.”

He stretches out a hand through the window to her, in spite of Orthatinnu’s—and the sailors who had brought her to the royal stable’s—warnings. The filly steps forward, leans her head down to sniff his fingers—and then snakes her head forward to bite. Gil-galad jerks away with a laugh.

“I should have known better,” he says. “You nearly had me.” He grins then, eye flashing. “Elrond will certainly have his hands full with you. But I think you will be good for him.”

The filly snorts again, as if to say, _You only think so_.

Gil-galad turns and strides away, whistling merrily. He has not felt this hopeful about Elrond’s future in months.

~*x*~

Orthatinnu leaves Mithlond a week later. He is escorted by a guard 20 strong, and accompanied by two hostlers sent to care for the filly. He had insisted on being the one to deliver the filly to Lord Elrond personally; she had been entrusted to his care by Lord Eärendil and Lady Elwing, and he would trust no one else to complete his mission.

“I do not see why 20 guards were necessary, though,” he comments to one of the hostlers on the second day.

The hostler raises her eyebrows, then says, “Have you not heard?”

“Heard what?” Orthatinnu asks.

“Lord Elrond and his company were taken prisoner along this very road less than a year ago—and ever since then, there has been an increasing number of reports of Orcs and Wolves sighted.”

Shock courses through Orthatinnu. “What happened to Lord Elrond?” he asks.

“No one knows,” says the hostler. “All anyone knows for certain is that Aran Gil-galad sent out a small army to meet with a force from Ost-in-Edhil nearly six months ago, and that they only returned some few weeks before you arrived. Rumor has it that Lord Elrond was kept as a slave by the Orcs of a den deep within the Misty Mountains—though no one knows any details, or even if that is true.”

“Ai, Elbereth,” whispers Orthatinnu. “I take it that is why he is in need of a new mount?” he asks.

The hostler nods. “His old mount, Veryafion, was found dead along with half of his company at the ambush site. There were little more than bones left, but it was confirmed later that her body was among them.”

“I see,” says Orthatinnu. Then, again, “I see.” He hesitates, then asks, “Has Lord Elrond recovered from his time with the Orcs?”

The hostler shrugs her narrow shoulders. “Few outside of Ost-in-Edhil have seen him of late,” she says. “He has not returned to Mithlond since his capture—though rumor has it that is under Aran Gil-galad’s orders, though no one is certain why that might be—and travel between the two cities has been limited ever since the attack.”

“I see,” says Orthatinnu again. “Well, I shall hope for the best.”

~*x*~

They are eight days from Ost-in-Edhil when the first howls of the Wolves are heard.

The captain of the escort curses, lifting his head from concentrating on whittling a wooden figurine in the likeness of the filly, who is picketed just beyond the edge of the fire. She too has flung up her head, ears pricked, body stiff and quivering. She listens as intently as the rest of them as a second voice joins the first, then a third, then a fourth.

They stoke the fire, and post a double watch that night, as well as the next. It is not until the third day that they catch sight of the Wolves hunting them, however.

The first Orthatinnu sees of the Wolves is a flash of grey in the undergrowth far ahead of them. He draws his gelding up to a sharp halt, crying out in dismay and warning, dragging the rest of the company to a standstill as well.

“What is it?” the captain asks, riding up beside Orthatinnu.

“I saw—”

There is another howl, this one closer than any of the others—this one right on top of them. And there, leaping out into the road before them, is a giant Wolf with grey fur and bared fangs, flat, yellow eyes blazing. The Wolf lifts back its head, howls—and surging out from the undergrowth to every side comes the rest of the pack they had heard closing in on them.

There are ten of them, all massive, all grey-furred, all yellow-eyed. They snap and snarl, saliva dripping from their jowls, and stalk forward on huge paws silent amidst the brush.

The captain curses and draws his blade. The rest of the escort does the same, and Orthatinnu and the two hostlers are pushed to the center of the ring they form, the filly at the heart of the three of them. She stands and quivers, muscles leaping and jumping beneath her skin, legs rigid, ears painfully flicking back and forth and back again.

The Wolves attack as one. The Elves cry out in fury and strike back, and one, two, three of the Wolves fall to move no more on the dusty road. Their blood stains the earth, and their eyes lose their fire.

They are not the only ones to fall, however. One of the Elves is knocked from his horse, and the next thing Orthatinnu sees is blood, blood, blood as his throat is torn out. Orthatinnu, who was too young to join the War of Wrath, and has never seen an Elf die before, screams, then leans over the edge of his saddle and retches miserably. When he straightens again, it is to see that another of his Elven escort has been slain, and is in the process of being torn apart by two ravenous Wolves crouched over him.

One of those two Wolves is pierced through the back and chest by a spear thrown by the captain. It gurgles, then falls to the ground in slumped death. The second Wolf howls and yips, then lunges forward, breaking into the circle of riders surrounding Orthatinnu, the hostlers, and the filly.

There is a shout from the female hostler Orthatinnu had spoken to that second day, and two of the Elven riders turn to see the Wolf rear up and lunge at her. She falls from her horse beneath the Wolf’s mighty jaws, already red-stained, and her cry is silenced abruptly.

Before Orthatinnu can even react, however, the Wolf straightens, blood running now from its lips. It looks at Orthatinnu, opens its mouth, and growls, “You are next.” Then it lunges.

Orthatinnu shouts, throwing up his arms to protect his face. Something hard and heavy slams into his body, sending him flying. _This is it,_ he thinks as he lands on the ground and skids one pace, two, the Wolf landing on top of him. _This is the end. I am about to die and go to Mandos’s Halls, and—_

A shriek, terrible and vicious, that makes Orthatinnu’s blood run cold. The Wolf on top of him hesitates, turns—and then flinches visibly as a concussive _thud THWUMP_ snaps through the air. The Wolf yelps—and then cries out again, body jerking to one side, as a second set of thuds pierce the air.

Orthatinnu rolls onto his stomach and levers himself up, wriggling out from underneath the Wolf. The Wolf snarls and snaps—but not at him. Orthatinnu gains his feet and turns, just in time to see: the filly, the demon filly, rear up on her hind legs and strike once more at the Wolf with both flailing front hooves. She impacts it right on the neck and side of the jaw, sending it reeling and howling. She whirls, kicks out with both of her hind hooves, then turns back to rear up over it once more. It has landed on its side, and the filly now comes crashing down on its skull with both of her front hooves. There is a terrible _crunch_ of bone and then—silence.

Orthatinnu looks around. All of the Wolves are dead or fled, the bodies lying like hulking shadows in the road. The air smells of blood and death, and Orthatinnu shudders in spite of himself. He would throw up again, he thinks, only he has nothing left but bile in his belly.

The captain approaches Orthatinnu. “Well done,” he says, reaching out to clasp Orthatinnu’s shoulder. “You handled yourself admirably.”

Orthatinnu does not agree—but he does not contest either. He has no energy to do so. Instead he simply nods, then sinks onto the ground in front of the dead Wolf, crushed by the filly’s hooves, and the filly herself. Her legs are stained, he sees, with blood.

~*x*~

They reach Ost-in-Edhil by the end of the week. They are welcomed with open arms and warm beds and hot baths—all for which Orthatinnu is grateful. The next day he is summoned to Lord Celeborn’s office in the heart of the castle. Lord Elrond is there, as is Lady Galadriel and Lord Celebrimbor.

“You are the courier for Aman, are you not?” Lord Elrond asks, once Orthatinnu is seated.

“I am,” says Orthatinnu uncomfortably. He has met Lord Elrond some numerous times before during his duties, and had always liked the _peredhel._ Never before had Lord Elrond looked so pale or gaunt, however, as if a particularly stiff breeze could blow him away.

“What brings you here, then?” Lord Celeborn asks, leaning forward behind his desk.

“I bring a gift for Lord Elrond,” says Orthatinnu, looking over at the _peredhel_. He sees the shock spirit across Lord Elrond’s face, before it is gone as if it had never been there.

“From whom?” Lord Elrond asks.

“Your parents, my lord,” says Orthatinnu.

Again, the spirit of shock, there and then gone. Lord Elrond asks, “And what is this gift?”

“Did you see the filly we brought in with us? Midnight black and midnight in temper?”

“Aye,” says Elrond, sounding slightly uncomfortable for some reason.

“She is yours,” says Orthatinnu. “She is bred of the finest Amani stock, and should serve you well for thousands of years—if you are able to tame her.”

Lord Elrond smiles. “I see,” he says. He bows then, the gesture jerky and stiff. “My thanks, Orthatinnu,” he says. “You needn’t have come all this way—yet you did, and I thank you for that.”

“Of course, my lord,” says Orthatinnu, not knowing how else to respond.

Then, abruptly, Lord Elrond turns and vanishes from Lord Celeborn’s office, the door swinging shut behind him with a _thump_.

Orthatinnu turns to Lord Celeborn, Lady Galadriel, and Lord Celebrimbor. “Is he well?” he asks hesitantly, unsure if he dares to voice the questions running rampant through his mind.

“No,” says Lord Celebrimbor bluntly. His eyes are sharp on Orthatinnu’s, brilliantly burning silver, and his dark hair reflects the light of the candles scattered around the room. “But he will be.”

~*x*~

“Hello again,” says Elrond. He stands in front of the small pasture the black filly was stabled in the night before, and looks at her with new eyes. He had visited her the evening before, curious and wondering who she belonged to, a strange pang in his heart. She had stared at him, wide-eyed and questioning, and he had been unable to answer any of the queries buried in her heart.

Now he can.

“It would seem,” he says, “that you are mine.”

The filly stares at him.

“I am broken,” Elrond says softly. “I am nothing more than a shadow of what I once was. But I shall do my best by you,” he promises.

Still the filly stares at him.

Elrond smiles grimly. “I see,” he says, and takes a step toward the fence, offering a hand.

One step. Then another. Then a third. Then the filly is before him and lowering her nose into his hand.

Elrond smiles.

The filly bites him.

Elrond shouts and the filly rears her head back, releasing him, then skitters away. Elrond clutches his bitten hand to his chest, glares at the filly, and then sighs.

He knows enough about horses to make an educated guess as to what is wrong.

“They _would_ send me a traumatized horse,” Elrond mutters, staring at the filly with a mixture of regret and dislike and what almost looks, already and in spite of himself, like love. He sighs again, then says, “You nee a name.”

He thinks for a long moment, staring at the filly staring back at him. Then, softly, he says, “I think I’ll call you…Avasath.”

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Comment and let me know!


End file.
